by Mark Berent
FLAMING ARROW
An 8- by 10-foot map composed of 1:250,000 aeronautical charts of South Vietnam was shellacked to one wall of the map room. Six pilots, each with a coffee, most with a cigarette, were studying the grease pencil marks at XT 424680 where last contact was made with the China Boys. Among them were Jack Ward, Doug Fairchild, and Bob Derham out to see how the plan for the squadron would develop. K.L. Jones was down from Wing. Crowded in the room with them were representatives from weather, intelligence, maintenance, and armament. Court began to brief.
"Good morning, gentlemen. Glad to see everybody looking so bright eyed and bushy tailed." The men groaned. "This is Sergeant Jim Monaghan who was extracted out of the area last night. He is going to monitor the operation and provide liaison with the Army."
The pilots looked with unabashed awe at Monaghan standing there in his freshly washed but faded tiger suit, green beret mashed down over one eye, arm in a sling, newly bloodied bandage. Almost as wide as he was tall, his close cropped curly blonde hair framed his map of Ireland face. Monaghan nodded and with a puckish grin made the sign of the cross saying, "FAC, TAC, and napalm." The pilots grinned approval, and several gave him a thumbs up. Outside the roar of afterburners vibrated the room. Bannister glanced at his watch and waited until the noise subsided.
"It's ten past six," he said. "We go on War Zone Charley alert status at six thirty. What you just heard were the primary Alert birds. They'll be over the target area seconds before first light to meet up with Copperhead Zero Nine. He's been on station since Spooky left. It looks like a VC regiment has the China Boys surrounded. One of the four Americans is believed dead, body not recovered, and 17 of the 33 Nungs are dead or wounded. We need to cover their exfiltration. To do it we have six dedicated birds with mixed hard and soft loads of Mk-82 500lb low drags, high drag snakes, CBU, napalm, and of course 800 rounds of 20 mike-mike each. Maintenance says they can turn the birds around in 20 minutes between sorties."
The maintenance officer nodded. "If you don't bring them back broke or full of holes," he said.
Bannister continued. "Some early morning fog has burned off, and the weather looks good for the rest of the day. So far no heavy ground fire has been reported. Isn't that right?" Bannister looked at the weather and intelligence officers.
"High scattered to broken clouds at 25 thousand; viz 8 to 10 in haze; temp 90 to 95; humidity the same; the usual late afternoon thunderstorms. There is a stationary front out over the Gulf of Thailand, but it won't affect us today," the weather briefer said. The officer from the Intelligence shop stepped up.
"Outside of that Dash-K that came up two days ago, we have no reports of anything heavier than small arms," he said. "But we think there are more of those Dash-K 12.7s in the area so be on the lookout. By the way, if they use tracers, they are green. Friendly tracers are red or amber."
"It's pleasant to know whether your friends or enemies are shooting at you," Fairchild quipped.
"With the Mark 128 radio," Bannister said, pointing to the pallet, "we have five radios. Uniform for contact with the strike fighters, two Fox Mikes for FAC and ground troop contact, an HF with secure voice capability, and a VHF. Sergeant Monaghan will now bring you up to date as to the ground situation."
Monaghan pointed with his left hand to the 1:50,000 ground maps pinned up on the aeronautical charts and told the group what had taken place so far. Each pilot entered the details on his own maps and sketched out the LZ layout on the back of his mission card.
"The thing to watch for is our Huey gunships and Dustoffs orbiting around trying to lay down fire and get in the LZ. Hopefully the FAC will keep everything under control and we'll get everybody out and have a snake fry tonight, right?" Monaghan concluded his briefing.
Bannister asked his boss, Major Derham, if he had any comments or questions. Derham said no. Bannister posted the flight lineup.
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CALL SIGN NAME ACFT LOAD ALERT
RR 20 Ward 627 hi drag/nape cockpit
RR 21 Fairchild 741 lo drag/cbu cockpit
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RR 25 Nabors 811 hi drag/nape 5 min
RR 26 Taylor 762 lo drag/cbu 5 min
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RR 28 Derham 523 hi drag/nape 10 min
RR 29 Jones 398 lo drag/cbu 10 min
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After filling out their mission cards, the pilots moved to the PE room to get their equipment: G-suits, survival vests, pistol belts, helmets, map bags, and backpack parachutes. Over 30 pounds in all. Due to the heat they would not don their gear until after pre-flighting their airplane. Each stopped by the refrigerator, drank heavily from a chilled water bottle, then took from the freezer his own two plastic baby bottles full of frozen water and placed them in small bags sewn to their parachute harnesses. The heat was such that the ice would melt by the time they got to the runway. Each pilot would drink one bottle before takeoff, the other sometime during the flight. Bladder control was no problem since they sweated out far more than they took in. Doc Russell had calculated that from start to finish of a mission, the average pilot lost a quart of water causing a weight loss of two pounds.
All six pilots went out to their airplanes. After performing their preflight inspection, Ward and Fairchild suited up and took their places in their F-100s parked side-by-side with umbrellas rigged to shield the cockpits from the sun. Aircraft skin temperature at 165 degrees was enough to fry an egg. The 5-minute Alert pilots sat under one airplane in the shade. Derham and Jones returned to the briefing room in time to hear Copperhead Zero Nine calling.
"Ramrod Control, this is Copperhead Zero Nine, how you read on Uniform?"
"Five by, Copperhead Zero Nine, this is Ramrod Control. How do you read us?" Bannister transmitted.
"Five by five, Ramrod. We have negative contact with China Boy since 0532 this morning when they said they had a heavy TIC (Troops in Contact) and were about to be overrun. As a result, I had no place to put in the Alert birds, so I turned them over to Horn DASC (Direct Air Support Center) for their use. You copy?"
"Roger copy, go ahead," Bannister said.
"And we have a new situation up here," Zero Nine said. "There is an armored column, call sign Rover, from the 1st Infantry Division heading north on Route 13 about 15 klicks east of China Boy. I think China Boy prematurely sprung the ambush the VC had set up for them, but the bad guys have attacked anyhow, in force. Also, nobody told me the 1st Division was sending anybody up here. Did you guys know about that?"
"Negative," Bannister transmitted, "I'll see what I can find out from MACV." He cut off to tell Monaghan to raise MACV on the HF radio. "Meanwhile, do you have a fix on the VC attacking the column?"
"Roger, they're all over the place, on both sides of the road. Copperhead Zero Three is on it. If I can't raise China Boy I'd like to have your Alert birds sent to him. Can you cut that?"
"What do you think?" Bannister asked Monaghan who said sure as long as China Boy wasn't on the air.
"Roger, Zero Nine, we'll send them to Zero Three, but you can have them back anytime you need them. Meantime you orbit China Boy's last position listening and looking for ground panels, or anything else they might signal with." Bannister said. Zero Nine rogered and said he'd be standing by on this frequency for future calls from Ramrod Control.
Monaghan found the command call sign for the 1st Infantry Division in the squadron codebook.
"Slingshot, Slingshot," he called on HF, "this is Ramrod Control. Do you read?"
Slingshot answered immediately and wanted to know exactly who Ramrod was, why they were on command frequency, and to preface their answer by authenticating Tango Zulu.
Monaghan authenticated and a
sked Slingshot if they could go secure voice on SSB (single sideband). Both stations went secure voice and Monaghan informed Slingshot that their armored column headed to Route 13 was in deep kimchi and he, Ramrod Control, had the TAC air to bail them out. Army Sergeant Monaghan was obviously relishing his position as an authoritative Air Force voice on an Army HF command net.
"Standby, Ramrod," Slingshot said. Two minutes passed. "Ramrod, Slingshot. Roger, we will take all you've got. Have your FAC contact Rover on 48.35 on Fox Mike. And Ramrod, Slingshot Actual says not to worry. A couple hours ago, he ordered the 195th Light Infantry Brigade to get some people into the China Boy LZ and get the Mike Force out. You concentrate on Rover. Copy?"
"Roger, Slingshot. Rover on 48.35 and 195th due in. What's their ETA?" Bannister responded, impressed that Slingshot Chief, Major General Dupuy in charge of the 1st Division, was taking a personal interest.
"Ramrod, the 195th is on four hour Alert status, they'll be in position any time now. Copy?"
Bannister said he copied and they both went off the air to maintain a listening watch on the Slingshot command frequency.
"Balls," Monaghan said. "I wish it was the 199th going in there. The 195th has got bad command problems."
By noon, Copperhead Zero Three and Zero Nine, spelling each other on station, had put in 18 sets of fighters, a total of 43 airplanes, for the armored column, Task Force Rover. The column, composed of Troops B and C of the 1st Squadron with M48A3 tanks, M132 flamethrowers, and various M113 tracks, was stretched out over a half mile of highway cut into three segments like a chopped up angleworm as elements of the 9th Viet Cong Division worked them over on Route 13.
The armored unit was there under a plan originated by the 1st Division to provoke an ambush at one of five suspected sites. By provoking an ambush, the tankers hoped to deplete both VC troops and the VC desire to further mess with traffic on the road. The idea was to keep Route 13 open from Saigon to Loc Ninh. That the Mike Force would spring the VC attack earlier than expected, was not part of the contingencies listed in the basic Task Force Rover plan.
At the sound of the first B-40 round fired by the VC into his column, the commander of Task Force Rover, a lieutenant colonel, instantly gave the signal for his vehicles to button up, pivot, and face alternately outward in a herringbone pattern and shoot everything they could in a reflexive counteraction "mad minute" to shock the ambushing Charlie. The herringbone also afforded visual and weapon coverage of each vehicle's dead spots.
The 1st Platoon took the main thrust of the hasty area ambush. The commander of the lead tank was killed, the scout section was blasted out of action, and the platoon sergeant took over when the platoon leader was wounded. Canister round after canister round fired from the M48A3 90mm guns tore into enemy positions, shredding as many tree limbs and branches as bodies. But the heavy fire kept Charlie's head down and made rising up to fire a rocket propelled grenade (RPG) a chancy thing. The lieutenant colonel looked over the situation, ordered Troop B into a better position to relieve the beleaguered 1st Platoon, and gave more air strike information to Copperhead Zero Nine.
Because no contact had been made with China Boy, Bannister released the War Zone Charley Three birds to fly two sorties each. No one from the 195th had checked in and repeated calls by Monaghan to Slingshot brought no news as to its whereabouts or how long the delay would be before they went to look for the overrun China Boys.
At 1230, Bob Derham entered the makeshift command post and pulled Bannister to one side.
"Court," he said, "do you have a relative named Shawn Bannister?"
"Yeah, he's a relative," Bannister responded not really wanting to spell out the half-brother relationship. He knew Shawn was in-country but had made no attempt to see him. They had never gotten along.
"Well, the Wing PIO called and said he's here on base with some high-powered credentials. Seems he got wind of the lost Mike Force troops and wants to do a story for the California Sun on how the Air Force participates in such a situation."
Bannister shrugged. "Sure, fine. But if he's got credentials, you don't need to check with me."
"That's just it. He wants to fly with you. The PIO at 7th Air Force has General Momyer's enthusiastic approval. They think it would be great publicity."
Bannister, hands on hips, faced away from Derham and blew out an exasperated puff of air.
"Look," Derham said, "no pilot of mine has to fly with any newsie if he doesn't want to, regardless of what 7th Air Force says. Say the word, I'll tell the PIO to forget it."
Bannister knew if he refused to fly with Shawn, he'd be putting Bob Derham in an awkward position. "Send him down," he said, "I'll fly with him."
Bannister returned to Ramrod Control and the makeshift command post. For the next three hours, he and Monaghan were totally wrapped up coordinating air support, adjusting weapons loading to the battle condition while monitoring the progress of the ground battle around the armored column. Flight after flight of F-100s from Bien Hoa and Tan Son Nhut had put in Mk-82 bombs, CBU, and napalm against the VC trying to obliterate Rover. Some green tracer had been observed far to the west vainly reaching out for the attacking fighters. Two F-100s with snakes and nape shut it up.
"That Dash-K was firing from about the coords where Spears and Haskell ran into all that stuff," Monaghan said.
"Right," Bannister replied. "I think our guys screwed up the ambush time table so they couldn't get the gun in position in time. The VC showed damn poor discipline firing so early. And with tracers at that. They're usually better."
"Yeah, well," Monaghan said, pointing at Bannister with the microphone in his hand, "frying up a few of those VC motherfuckers teaches fire discipline in a big hurry."
The brilliant glare of a flash bulb filled the room as a voice said "Excellent quote, sergeant. Where are you from?"
Both men turned to see Shawn Bannister in the doorway down on one knee re-focusing his Hasselblad 500EL. He wore a khaki safari suit and a floppy jungle hat with matches and what looked like marijuana roaches stuck in the band. Behind him stood the Wing PIO and his assistant. Next to them was Charmaine. Major Derham was off to one side. The flash unit went off again galvanizing Monaghan to advance on Shawn Bannister snarling something about seeing how far he could stuff that camera up his nose sideways.
Gasping and elbowing forward past Major Derham, the 3rd Tactical Fighter Wing PIO (Public Information Officer), an older, rheumy lieutenant colonel, said to Monaghan, "Here, now. Don't you know who this is?"
The map of Ireland turned red as Monaghan's eyes bulged with fury. Clearly, he was en route to tear out the throat of the obstructing colonel to get at his tormentor with the flash camera whose own face started to get a bit white.
"Oh, hell," Bannister said, half laughing as he slid in front of Monaghan, "what the sergeant means is he's delighted to have this opportunity to converse with members of the great American press so he can tell them factually in a few words exactly what he thinks of this war."
Derham, hands on hips, wide grin on his face, spoke up. "Colonel, if you'll bring Mr. Shawn Bannister out here, we'll get this situation cleared up." The lieutenant colonel, apologizing profusely to Mr. Shawn Bannister, pushed him out of the map room with fluttering hands. Captain Correlli, the assistant PIO, a man with a pockmarked, street wise face, winked at Court Bannister and Jim Monaghan as he followed. Major Derham said he'd see about getting Shawn suited up for the flight. Charmaine remained standing in the doorway. She wore the first of the latest trend, a red linen mini-skirt and a lightweight white cotton tee shirt. It was obvious she did not wear a brassiere. On her feet she wore tan sandals with gold cords tied around her ankles.
"Hello, Court," she said, "I haven't seen you in a sweaty flight suit since Luke. How have you been?" (Luke AFB was a training base outside of Phoenix.)
"This is Jim Monaghan," Court Bannister said to his former wife, ignoring her question, "and he likes to eat newsies. Or can't you tell?"
"You do know I'm not with the press, don't you?" she said to the Green Beret sergeant.
"Oh, yes indeed, Ma'am. You are definitely not one of those. No indeed." Monaghan said, making a good attempt at a gallant bow while taking in her great legs and unfettered breasts. Charmaine extended her hand to shake his. For a minute Monaghan looked as if he was going to kiss it. He grinned, thought to hell with all these officers, and did exactly that.
Charmaine trilled a genuinely pleased laugh. "I'm so pleased to meet you, Sergeant," she said. "Damn few gentlemen around here, wouldn't you say?"
"Damn few," Monaghan echoed, captivated.
A speaker crackled as one of the Copperheads called Ramrod Control requesting the arrival time of the next flight. Monaghan said he'd take it. Court escorted Charmaine to a corner in the ops room. Pilots walking to and from their airplanes, laden with flight gear, looked appreciatively at her from the corners of their eyes.
"I heard you were in-country with the Bob Hope show." He pulled out a Lucky and lit it.
"Did you see it?"
"No time," he said.
"You quit smoking in Phoenix," she said. "When did you start again?"
"Here," he said, waving the cigarette in a circular motion.
"Do you still listen to opera?"
"Of course."
"And what happened to the test pilot school? I heard from your Dad you were accepted. He was so proud and happy. I thought you wanted to be an astronaut. Why did you turn it down?"
"I didn't turn it down, I merely put it off for a year."
"I don't understand. Why did you do that?" she asked.
"I did it so I could come here." He waved his cigarette in the all-encompassing circle.
Charmaine sighed, then assumed a bright expression on her face. "Court, you haven't asked, but yes thank you, kind Sir, I'm fine. Fine and dandy. My career is going again and I'm deliriously happy. Well, mostly happy." She swayed her hips. "I do miss you, you know. We were good together."
"In bed," he said.
"Yes, in bed." She frowned. "I guess that's all we remember, isn't it?"
Court stepped back. He felt a more than faint stirring in his loins. It had been a long, long time since he had bedded anything and an erection in the standard USAF K-2B flight suit was about as concealable as a tent pole.
"Look," he said, "you're a good kid and all that, but I'm busy. Go find that newsie half-bro of mine, and get on with your life."
"With him?" she said, deliberately misreading his statement, "Not a chance."
"Why not? He'd be good for your career," he said with a derisive snort.
"Damn you. You used to be a lot nicer than that," she said.
"Didn't we all. Why are you running around with him, then?" he said.
"I'm not running around with him. He's showing me the war. I get to see and do things I never could with the Bob Hope troupe. Besides, it's nearly impossible for a single girl to get around Vietnam without an escort."
"So okay," Court said, moving away. "Come with me." He checked the flying schedule then brought her to PE where the rheumy lieutenant colonel was watching Shawn get outfitted.
"We take off in one hour at 1700," Court said to him. "Meet you in the map room as soon as you are finished here." He walked out as his half-brother flashed his dazzling grin more reminiscent of their father, Silk Screen Sam Bannister, than any smile Court could ever muster.
"At the ambush this morning, the armored column was cut into four sections," Court began the briefing. He showed Shawn the battle situation and explained the tactical plans for the elements to join up and fight their way out. Shawn took pictures of Court and his briefing map.
"I came here because of the missing SF troops," Shawn said, "not because of an attack on some tank heads."
"They're still missing," Court replied.
"Aren't they in the same general area as the armor?"
"Yes."
"Then why hasn't someone gone to get them, using your F-100s as cover?" Shawn asked.
"Someone is going."
"Is going? Who? When?" Shawn asked.
"The 195th Light Infantry Brigade as soon as possible."
"I heard they were due there," Shawn looked at his watch, "four or five hours ago. Why the delay?"
"Let's fly," Court Bannister said to his half-brother well aware of the unacceptable delay. Court and Jim Monaghan had yet to get a response from Slingshot, but that was an in-house military problem, not something that he would share with a newsie. He led the way as they walked out of the squadron.
Court assisted his crew chief, Sgt. Fred Maddux, in attaching the four seat straps, the G-suit hose, and radio wires to Shawn and his equipment in the backseat of the F-100F. He checked all the connections and had Shawn repeat the ejection and ground egress procedures one more time. A panicked passenger could sit and burn during a survivable ground accident if he didn't have the automatic reflex necessary to unhook and unstrap from all his links to the cockpit. He then showed Shawn where to set his oxygen regulator (100 percent oxygen to help stave off motion sickness) and how to press the button on the throttle to talk on the intercom. He made sure his half-brother had a barf bag tucked under one leg.
"Don't touch anything else unless you want to eject," Court said.
"Just this," Shawn said tapping his camera.
Court climbed in front, plugged in, put on his helmet, started the engine, got his wingman checked in, received clearance, and taxied from the revetment.
"Here's the situation," Copperhead Zero Three radioed Court and his wingman, callsigns Ramrod 43 and 44. "You can see down there, three elements have linked up and are closing with the fourth to the east. Once they are together, they will keep going east to the main highway as far as they can before dark."
Court had his two planes in orbit at 13,000 feet, Ramrod 44 in trail. Each carried bombs and napalm. They could see the curving road with burned and blasted vehicles, some still smoking, mixed with maneuvering tracks threading their way west, smoke curving from barrels as they fought. Some time before, the jungle forest had been cleared back from the road about 100 feet on each side to expose ambush sites. That the VC attacked at this open spot instead of further east where the vegetation all but smothered the road confirmed that the ambush had been prematurely sprung by Spears and Krocek. Small fires burned in and around that area on both sides from VC fighting positions that had been drenched by the M132 flamethrowers. Several bomb craters extended from the cleared areas into the jungle. The whole scene, as others had done before, reminded Court of World War II movies. From over two miles high, he could not see any moving figures. He heard Copperhead transmit.
"Ramrods, I'll put some smoke in on each side of the clearing of the western-most position. Each of you take a side and put your bombs in one at a time along the tree line. Then we'll do the same with nape in the clearing only closer to the road. Make your runs New York to Oregon. Copy?"
"Roger, copy," Court said. "Set 'em up, Ramrod," he added telling his wingman it was time to set up his armament switches. "You take the south side." Court had seen the wind from the south blow smoke over the road and into the tree line to the north. He allowed his less experienced wingman to make his passes in the clear while he made his in the smoke- obscured north edge of the clearing.
Phil Travers had set up the overall pattern so the attacking aircraft would make their passes parallel to the friendlies, an SOP set up to prevent long or short releases from impacting on friendly troops. He also had them pull off west from their runs into the sun blinding the gunners who came up to shoot as planes would pull off. The experienced gunners knew better than to shoot at the diving fighters because the pilots zooming down head on could quickly spot the muzzle flashes.
Travers had Parker from the back seat read off to the pilots wind direction and velocity, altimeter setting, target elevation, ground fire report, backup radio frequency, and safe bailout heading and distance. Parker had been al
ong on every flight with the blessings of Colonel Norman, who knew the battle was joined and thought it good experience for his courier to see firsthand what was happening.
"Lead's in, New York to Seattle, FAC in sight," Court called rolling in on his first bomb run. Travers cleared him then his wingman. As they alternately made their passes, Shawn took pictures through the side of the canopy as Court would bottom out from his run. He thought he could see figures running around jumping from hole to hole. He listened to the radio chatter. "Two's in... Clear... FAC in sight... Nice bomb... Lead put your second on the gomers 50 meters east of your first bomb..."
"Nicely done, guys," Travers said after the flight had put in their bombs. "Hold high and dry for a spell while I talk to these Rover guys and see where they need the nape and CBU." In a few minutes he came back on.
"Listen up, Ramrods. They're ready to punch through and join up, but they've spotted a bunch of VC to the east they think are waiting for them. Put your nape right where I mark, Lead. Two, you hold your CBU till I see how Lead does." Travers rolled in and marked. Court made his calls and rolled in from 5,000 feet. He concentrated on attaining the parameters for napalm delivery. He set up his switches, dialed 75 mils depression in his gunsight pipper, lowered the nose to achieve ten degrees dive angle as verified by his attitude indicator, adjusted his throttle to attain 400 knots indicated airspeed, crosschecked altitude as he approached release height, maintained a slight crosswind compensation that he would kick out at the last second, and watched his pipper drift up to the target. As he got lower, he suddenly saw several black-pajama clad figures jump from a bomb crater, and start running parallel to the road as if to reach a better shelter from what they knew was coming.
"Got those gomers?" Travers yelled, "Get 'em."
Bannister didn't have time to answer as he concentrated on the figures growing larger in his view through the gunsight. In split seconds he rapidly crosschecked his parameters. When he couldn't look in the cockpit any more, and when he knew it was right and the figures were huge in his gunsight, he thumbed the pickle button, and felt the chung-chung under each wing as the release cartridges kicked the two 750lb cans of napalm free of the airplane to tumble to the ragged earth and splash burning jellied gasoline over the running figures. This imprint stayed on Court's eyeballs as he climbed and jinked away. This was the closest Court had ever been to the enemy, and as he positioned himself according to Travers's orders for strafe, he kept seeing the running figures over and over again.
On his first strafe run between their position and the road, he pulled out low and saw the blackened figures tumbled and coiled midst the lowering flames from the fire soaked earth. He counted eleven. He was strangely thankful for the G-force and the wild rocking as he jinked extra hard to avoid whatever ground fire might remain.
He strafed, pass after pass, cannons roaring, in tandem with his wingman, who had put his CBU in, strafing where Parker told them. Travers was getting second-to-second battle information from Rover who had marshaled all his tracks, and had indeed punched through to join up with his last cutoff element with all guns and tubes blazing in the gathering dusk. Everybody smelled blood and victory.
"Shit hot. Shit hot," Parker was shouting over the UHF to them as he monitored Travers's running conversation with the troop's tank commander on FM. "They're linked up. Rover's all joined up."
Court and his wingman called Winchester, which meant fired out. They orbited lower than normal, at 5,000 feet, to see the final flicker of flames and the eerie tongues of fire from the flame gun as Rover consolidated their position for the night. Copperhead Zero Three read off their BDA (Bomb Damage Assessment) and said that Rover was going to recover their dead and hold position for the night. Tomorrow they would punch out and rejoin their parent unit.
"Any word from China Boy," Court asked.
"Negative," came the laconic reply.
Court now had time for his half-brother in the back seat. Many times during the mission he had told Shawn to shut up when he tried to speak. He was aware he had become sick several passes back. Finally Court let him talk.
Sputtering and cursing, spitting into the barf bag, Court's half-brother said "Those were civilians. You just napalmed eleven civilians. I counted them. They must have been from an old bus I saw tumbled in the ditch. You killed civilians, you son of a bitch."
Court heard him as he looked down from his orbit. The sun, bloated and low on the horizon, sent reflecting rays into the smoke and dust that made golden spikes emerge and pin burned out vehicles to the road.
"Oh yeah? We'll let me show you something." Court said. He told Travers and his wingman he was going to make a BDA pass then savagely racked the F-100 into position for a dangerous low altitude, low airspeed pass. "Get your fucking camera ready, Shawn," Court said as he lined up to follow the road where the burned out and holed American vehicles lay scattered about like toys in a sandbox. He flattened out from his dive, eased the throttle back to maintain 300 knots and followed the road viciously banking the plane from side to side saying "There" and "There" and "There" as he pointed a wing at the burned and punctured hulls of the American vehicles, many with blackened bodies and parts of bodies hanging from turrets and scattered on the ground.
"Here's your fucking bus," he said dipping a wing over a crumpled M113 tracked vehicle modified to be a rolling command post. Blackened burn spots from where B-40 rocket propelled grenades had holed the upper hull were spaced such as to appear as windows to the untrained eye.
Court chandelled up from the carnage, signaled his wingman into position, checked out with Copperhead Zero Three, and headed home. Twenty minutes later as last light faded, the two F-100s landed in perfect formation at Bien Hoa from a GCA.